


To whoever may happen across me

by anna_o_0



Category: Original Work
Genre: How do I tag without ruining my DramaTM, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm a dramatic bitch and so is he, Imprisonment, Letter, Mentions of Death, This was a collaboration but this is only a revamp of my part, Vague descriptions of violence, bare with me pls, low-key proud but also terrified, this is my first post anywhere pls-
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_o_0/pseuds/anna_o_0
Summary: I shouldn't be writing this. This will get me killed. I'm going to end up dead.He's been here a long time. He's crumbling.=======Hey! This is my first posted work and it's late and I'm tired that is probably the only reason I have the guts to do this.....I'm scared, and I absolutely have no formal training and no one but Grammarly read this, so please be constructive with your criticism.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	To whoever may happen across me

**Author's Note:**

> So! As the summary says, this is my first, so,,, hi I guess  
> yeah im nervous, how can you tell?  
> Shoutout to my camp writing councilors, Jem and Collins for watching me write the first draft in the summer of 2018 and not laughing like I was before re-writing it... Also Emma, who read the last draft that summer before it went into the camp showcase, ran up to me when she was done, asked a million rapid-fire questions, ran off before I could answer them, and then wrote a beautiful companion piece (I still think of that as the first bit of feedback that hit me with "oh yeah I like making people feel like this")

Day 3,011

I shouldn't be writing this. This will get me killed. I'm going to end up dead.  
I suppose I should explain myself while I have the time. Death seems like a good option, by now.  
I'm a prisoner.

I forgot my name. The only identity I have now is a number. Two. They call me Number Two, in the one memory I have. Which scares me for one of two reasons. One– if I'm Number Two, is Number One the only other person here? Or, two– is the human race so terrible that the crimes I have committed have been repeated so quickly that the perpetrators fill this prison?

I know the answer to neither. And honestly, I don't know what I would prefer, if I could stay sane if I knew the answer.

You would think my cell would be small, as it's designed to be a super-prison-mind-torture-bad. But it's not. It's unnerving how well these people know me, how they know what makes me tick. I much prefer small, protected spaces where I can see everything and know everything, and there's no what-was-that-noise-I'm-going-to-die.

But my cell is vast. Immense enough that the word "cell" is giving you the wrong impression. It's a pit. It's a pit made of sorrow, misery, and pain. It's dark, damp, and full of crevices for people to hide in. Not that I wouldn't hear them coming.  
The only way down into this pit is a platform that brings me food at irregular intervals. The pulleys, however, are entirely silent, and it makes me twitchy.  
It's not large enough to carry someone's weight, though, I tried. My punishment was starvation while the pulley system was fixed. Not that I knew it was actually broken or that it was ever broken.

I never did hear who must've fixed it.

I may not know how many people are in this prison, but I know of at least one. I call him Hugo. I have never heard him leave his post, nor fall asleep there. Hugo has been my constant companion for all the 3,011 days of my confinement.

At least, I think it's been that long. I have a sneaking suspicion that the tally marks I have scratched into the walls of my black-rock-anger-hollow-help-me pit change just to screw with me.  
The only other person I am ever aware of is Hugo. The only reason I know he's there is because I hear him breathe. It's a never-ceasing reminder of my reality.  
I spoke to him, in the beginning. I stopped trying after the first week, I think. By the time I realized Hugo was never going to deign to speak back, I had screamed my throat raw and was choking on my own blood.

I have a theory, Reader-of-Mine, about Hugo.  
I do not believe he is human.  
I do not know what he- or it, I suppose- is, but human, he is not. I once stayed up for a whole week to see if he would fall asleep. And even when hallucinations danced behind my eyes, he didn't even yawn. And in all the time I have been here, there has never been a changing of the guard. Believe me, I know. I have memorized Hugo's breathing patterns by now. A never-changing anthem of nightmares.

I told you, in the beginning, that I should explain myself while I had the time.  
I'm dying.  
That's why I'm writing this. I couldn't tell you how I know. I just do.  
It's a hollow feeling. Like I'm…  
Being eaten.  
There's something down here with me.  
I can't see it. I can't hear it.  
But it's there.

I may not remember my name, but I remember one thing about my past: the reasons I'm here. The crimes that got me landed in this pit, those horrible things they made sure I would remember, that it-they-we-please-help would be all I would remember.  
I shall not tell you what they are, Reader mine, for I fear you will leave this account of my misery unread, and I will be left truly alone, even in death. Because surely I will be dead. Tell me, dear Reader, who are you? 

Perhaps I will find solace in your sure identity, for I am lost in mine. So, tell me.  
Are you an archeologist, staring in shock at the barbarity of a forgotten age? Or perhaps a traveler that has stumbled upon this hell of mine?

Or maybe you are Number One. And you are reading this while leaving bloody fingerprints on the pages.

Thank You, whoever you are.  
I hope you do not forget me.


End file.
